Draco Malfoy and the Intoxicated Americans
by Cattyline
Summary: When Draco Malfoy invited three renowned American artists to dinner, he obviously didn't "think things through." Nothing makes a night like a little red wine and some stimulating conversation, right? contains nonfictional elements


**A/N: This is a creative nonfiction essay I had to write for my Honors American Literature class. The only requirements were that it includes biographical information and/or themes from the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville (authors), and Mark Rothko (artist). ****Thus, I decided to make it about (guess who) Draco Malfoy!**** There was also a 3-5 page limit, so because my essay turned out to be 6 pages + 3 lines, I wrote the last paragraph for my teacher's benefit (it was initially double-spaced, as well). Figured I might as well put it up on FanFiction.**

**Also, I'd like to apologize to all the wonderful devoted readers of "A Day with Auntie Bella" for not having updated the story in quite some time. I don't have any excuse for the summer since I was just being lazy, but my life has been crazy since the beginning of the school year. Finals are coming up and teachers seem to be wanting to cram as much information in my head as possible before then :( However, Chapter 4 is almost ready to go, so make sure to keep an eye out for that. ****Thanks to everyone who reads and especially to those who review! Also, special thanks to my beta and best friend, The Obsessionist, who keeps reminding me to update and who has some wonderful new stories up! And without further ado...**

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[insert clever title here]

"Dear, come get ready for dinner! Our guests will be here any minute!" The young man at the window cringed as his wife's shrill call pierced through his contemplative silence. "Honey, what did I say about interrupting my brooding?" he called back. Not bothering to listen to her reply, the man downed the rest of the golden firewhiskey in his glass and snapped his fingers. A small elfish creature appeared with a pop, snatched the glass from his hand, and disappeared with another pop. Draco Malfoy glanced out the window again, then turned on his heel and went to follow his wife's orders.

Just as Draco was fixing his tie, another house elf appeared with a pop. "Master's first guest has arrived," it squeaked. Draco growled as the house elf disapparated. He didn't understand why Astoria had insisted upon inviting three Muggle-lovers for dinner. Sure, maybe they were influential in the Ministry as Astoria had said, but Draco was already influential enough. With infinite wealth, ownership of the Firebolt broomstick company, and a personal relationship with the Minister of Magic, he had all the influence he needed. Yet Astoria insisted upon getting to know them. "You'll enjoy their personalities," she'd said. Personalities, his Aunt Bellatrix; who cared about personalities? Obviously not Mr. Malfoy. Astoria called for him to greet the guest. Draco sighed and grudgingly stomped down the stairs to meet the guest in the parlor.

"Good evening. You must be Mr. Poe." Draco extended his hand toward the sallow-faced, mustachioed man slumped in an armchair. He recognized the man by the appearance reflecting his reputation of "bizarre genius drenched in alcohol" as the Minister had put it. The man heaved himself off of the chair and took Draco's outstretched hand. "Yes, sir, I am Edgar Allen Poe," he intoned blearily, smelling strongly of cooking sherry and reminding Draco of the old hag back at Hogwarts who taught Divination, Professor Trelawney. She had always roamed the castle dragging along her numerous beads and shawls and drinking bottles of cooking sherry. Poe interrupted Draco's reminiscences, "So, Mr. Malfoy, I seem to recall the invitation stating that we would be discussing 'Ministry issues,' is that right?" "Ah, yes, although I would like to wait until the other guests arrive before we-" The door to the parlor suddenly opened, and in came a house elf leading another man, bearded, burly, and dressed like he had just gotten off of a ship sailing the high seas. "Mr. Melville here to see Master Malfoy," squeaked the house elf before disapparating. Draco shook hands with the newcomer and invited him to have a seat. "I'd prefer not to," stated the man, still standing at the front of the room. Draco stared at him, affronted at his obvious display of rudeness. He had heard of Melville's strange behaviors before but had never witnessed them until now. Draco chose to ignore them and turned back to Poe, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Melville interrupted, "I know you must think I'm strange, but this is the way I am. I've tried to please the public and society through my writings, but honestly, I prefer to do things my way, if you don't mind." Draco again opened his mouth, but this time, Poe spoke up, "How old are you? Both of you." "29," said Draco. "I'll be 30 in June." "190," was Melville's answer. "It is 2010, then?" asked Poe. When Draco nodded, he countered, "Today is my 200th birthday. Because I am older than you, I believe I have the right to say that you are being completely and absolutely ridiculous. The public opinion is the one that matters the most." Melville swiftly crossed the room, withdrawing his wand at the same time. Seeing this, Poe jumped up and took out his wand. Not being completely drunk yet, Poe was only slightly unsteady as he stood facing Melville. Draco, still in shock of how old these two men actually were, did not register the scene in front of him until the parlor door opened, and a third man entered, unaccompanied. "Ah, you must be Mr. Rothko," exclaimed Draco, finally finding his voice and feeling relieved that the two men had become distracted from their duel by the new arrival. "And how old are you?" was Poe's greeting. "I am 107 years old," stated Rothko, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt question. "You see!" trumpeted Poe, swaying a bit. "As the oldest, I have the most authority in this room." With that statement, he brandished his wand, conjuring a large flask of red wine, and proceeded to drink said wine, tossing the empty flask at Melville when he was finished. Melville reacted instantaneously, conjuring a harpoon with his wand and stabbing the flask. It shattered, but before either object could hit the ground, both exploded in a shower of soft gold sparks. Draco looked around to see who had cast the spell and saw Rothko calmly pocketing his wand. Their eyes met, and Draco knew at that moment that Rothko would be the most agreeable of the night. Meanwhile, Poe and Melville had resumed their argument about literature. Poe was shouting about the success of his books and his efforts to break into the popular market while Melville was spewing off about the importance of philosophy and using higher learning. They had almost reached the point of dueling again when the door opened yet again, this time revealing a female figure. Astoria interjected above the chaos, "Perhaps it would be best if we adjourned to the dining room." The three men turned to stare at her, seemingly awestruck. Draco couldn't help but feel smug at the admiration radiating from them. He walked over to his wife, put his arm around her waist, and nodded at the men, who put their wands away and filed out of the parlor.

After an adventurous journey to the dining room (with Mr. Poe drunkenly banging into walls on the entire walk over and Mr. Rothko stopping in the middle of the hallway to stare at a stretch maroon wallpaper), the dinner party finally managed to seat themselves around the table, with Draco at the head, Poe to his left next to Astoria and Rothko to his right next to Melville. Dinner began with a soup course brought in by the house elves. "Interesting creatures, those house elves," stated Melville as he slurped his soup with the vigor of a cannibal gnawing on a human forearm. "I distinctly remember running into similar creatures during my voyages on the sea." Melville continued to recount his stories of the strange beings he encountered on various islands in the Caribbean. Draco personally thought that his stories sounded suspiciously like the Muggle tales of Greek mythology although the so-called "gods" had actually been powerful wizards who enjoyed screwing with the lives of innocent Muggles. When the house elves brought the main course, however, Melville began talking about cannibals, so Astoria tactfully spoke up, "Perhaps we should move on to a different topic, dear?" Draco looked up from the steak he was hacking at. "But dear, I so wanted to hear how the Mr. Melville managed to escape the cannibals before they cut out his entrails and-" A glare from Astoria had him backtracking. "I mean, why don't we hear from Mr. Poe and his recent work with the Ministry?" Poe looked up from the glass of wine he was drowning himself in and slurred, "Oh, yesh, ah told the case o' the Macnairssss to them Muggles." Draco furrowed his brow. "Wait, you told one of the most infamous magical prosecution cases in wizarding history to _Muggles_?" "Yeshh, o' course," replied Poe, sloshing a bit of wine out of his glass. "Ah wrote it in a shtory an' ah sold it to the Muggers. Mixed up the detailsh a bit, but s'still the same shtory, right?" Draco thought back to the old incident. A Muggle had gone to visit his wizarding friend, not knowing he was a wizard of course and also not knowing that he had a Squib sister. The wizard, tired of hiding his sister from the wizarding world, decided to fake his sister's death and had the Muggle help to bury her alive. Unfortunately, she turned out to be a witch after all with simply a delay of power. She ended up breaking out of the tomb and, unable to control her power, killed her brother. As the Muggle fled the house, she lost control of her emotions and exploded in pent-up power, destroying the house. It had taken a week for Aurors to find the Muggle witness and to obliviate his memory. "All ah did to the shtory was change the wizardsh to Mugheads and make it sheem like the house blew up on itsh own," said Poe. Rothko spluttered, "And you call that literature? You might as well be a Muggle, the way you're disgracing the wizarding world." Poe's eyes went slid a bit out of focus as he turned his face to Rothko. "Oh, and you musht think you're the better artist than I?" drawled Poe, brandishing his wine glass around like it was a saber. "You? With your shilly little boxes and maroon shphlatters, acting like that'sh real art?" Poe shtood, I mean, stood up abruptly, swayed, almost fell back down in his chair, took a few seconds to steady himself, and glared at Rothko with a surprising amount of focus. He then proceeded to throw the rest of his red wine in Rothko's face and stormed out of the room. Well, he didn't really "storm" though Draco observed that that was probably his intent. A more accurate description would have been "stumbled away from the table, tripped over the house elf that appeared to bring the next course, swore so loudly at the elf that she burst into tears, swore some more because he had gotten goose pate on his pants, attempted to preserve what little was left of his dignity by straightening his back and walking out, failed the attempt when he fell face-forward on the floor, got up for a second time, swearing even more profusely, and finally managed to make his way out the door, bouncing off the doorframe on the way out."

Draco sighed. Dinner had not gone how he had planned (or rather, how Astoria had planned). He motioned for Astoria to do something about the wailing house elf, who had begun to beat itself over its head with the previously pate-covered tray. Meanwhile, Draco snapped his fingers, and another house elf appeared. "Yes, Master Malfoy?" it squeaked. "Escort Mr. Poe back to his home," commanded Draco. "I do not wish to deal with a lawsuit over drunken splinching." The elf nodded and rushed after Poe. Draco turned back to the table and saw that Astoria had managed to calm the elf by letting her clear up the entrée dishes. Rothko was still covered in red wine but seemed to be sitting calmly. The house elf, who had just finished clearing the dishes, quickly went over to Rothko, did something magical and elvish, and caused the red wine to disappear from his face and clothing. Rothko slowly turned to stare at the house elf. "Thank you," he said impassively, turning back to the empty square of tablecloth in front of him. Melville on his right seemed unaffected by entire debacle. He continued to stab his rolled up napkin with his knife and appeared not to have noticed any of the occurrences of the past five minutes.

Normally, the rest of the dinner would have taken another three pages or so, but Draco realized that the author only has half a page to sum up the rest of the evening whilst still needing information about Rothko and Melville. For the reader's benefit and in defense of the author, he mentally pointed out that the description of the evening's events would have fit within the five-page limit if they had been recorded in a single-spaced format, such as the one demonstrated in the guidelines; however, Draco and the author both agreed that ease of reading took precedence over limitations on extent. Still, he carried the thought of brevity as he hurried his guests back into the parlor for coffee. Suddenly, the author realized that she didn't have time to make Draco sit through an entire coffee discussion with just Melville and Rothko, so Draco changed his mind and unceremoniously escorted the two men out the door. However, he took Rothko aside and invited him to come back for another dinner. After all, the two men had much in common.

**FIN**


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